


A Heady Drink

by Fernstrike



Series: We Who Endure [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Caladwen's actual and unironic A+ parenting, Coming of Age, Dancing, Doriath, Drunk Elves, First Age, Gen, Menegroth, Oropher's A+ parenting, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-17 05:57:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9308435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fernstrike/pseuds/Fernstrike
Summary: Thranduil passes his 100th begetting day with some help from Galion, meets an elf-maid, and contemplates where he has come from, and where he will go from here, as he leaves his days of a Doriathrin childhood behind.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is something of a bridge between the previous work in this series, and the ones to come. Some characters and dynamics were introduced in the previous work, so you may like to read it first (don't worry, 'tis short!). 
> 
> I figured the 100th begetting day of an elf, when they reach maturity, would be cause for a big celebration. So without further ado - bottoms up!

 Somehow, whenever Thranduil looks upon his wine goblet, it is once again filled.

"This must be some ancient sorcery," he slurs, clutching Galion's shoulder, "That a cup is ever full and never empty."

"Is that not good?" says his friend, beaming, almost a caricature as his image sways. The lamps, strung decoratively in the branches of the trees, illuminate his chestnut hair and darken his eyes. "May your cup ever flow over!" cheers Galion, clinking their goblets together.

They tip their heads back as they drink, and Thranduil opens his eyes for a moment to see the stars, wheeling in the high heavens overhead, clear and ornate, rich in their constellations, surrounding a great golden moon that has begun to slip down out of the sky, and he finds himself enraptured, his bare feet stumbling backward on the cool, sweet-scented grass as he is swallowed by the beautiful white light-- until his goblet is drained and he tips his head back down. He casts his gaze around for a bench to sit on, his head swimming.

The glade in which they are celebrating lies just outside the bright, glowing walls of Menegroth. Numerous _ellyn_ are dancing and laughing and eating and drinking. The host governed by his family were all invited, and are in attendance now to celebrate the begetting day of their lord's son. Others, too, have come - friends from different noble houses that Thranduil had insisted upon attending; lords and kin from among Doriath's vast populace. It is certainly not in the nature of the Iathrim to pass up the opportunity for celebration. Here, protected by the Girdle and their wardens, they have been doing just that since the sun began to sink at dusk. Even now, a breath away from dawn, they show no signs of stopping. 

Thranduil breathes in the fragrance of the night - the cool tang of the Esgalduin flowing nearby, the sweet musk of the forest of Region stretching onward behind him. Doriath. He could spend his eternity here. Menegroth is enchanting, but the realm is more than that. It is also the wide, wild woods and the creatures of the twilight, breathing life into the very air until it is something he could reach out to and touch with slender, pale fingers. The greatest difference between the woods and Menegroth, however, is that out here, you can see the stars. The light within the caves is like day and night at once, clear and bright. Even the birds sing in their great halls. It is only the stars that must set themselves in a dome higher than the great palace's ceilings. And how his people love the stars. 

He inhales again, and, lost in the spell, stumbles over his feet. Galion laughs, and takes him by the shoulders, guiding him to a wooden table. Of the two of them, he is more in command of his faculties. While Thranduil is not keen to admit this, he nevertheless allows his friend to lead him, keeping his chin high. Rather pretend he _isn’t_ as tipsy as he is. What would it say if he’d made a hundred years of life and couldn’t hold his liquor? 

They both sigh deeply, contentedly, as they sit down beside two other _ellyn_  lounging on the bench. The food on the table is overflowing as if it hasn't already been cleared away thrice by hungry, festive mouths. Thranduil picks up a handful of berries and small fruits and slowly eats them in a futile attempt to settle his stomach. He tries to seek his own reflection in his silver goblet, to see if his eyes are as drowsy and cheeks as flushed as Galion's, but the image is too skewed and blurry.

"How many have I had?" he asks, squinting into the empty goblet.

"I have no idea," says Galion. "The only one I remember for certain is when your father toasted your health. Thereafter, who knows."

Thranduil grimaces. "A fine toast it was.”

Galion scoffs. “Come now, don’t be like that. You’ve been so cheerful all evening.”

“I’m not _not_ cheerful,” he insists, narrowing his eyes in an attempt to both look intimidating and focus on Galion’s face. 

His friend simply raises a skeptical eyebrow, and Thranduil lets out a frustrated groan. “He wasn’t so vague with his wording for nothing. That’s all I’m saying."

“Of course not. He’s in the court. They never talk straight if they want to say anything. If he were to say what he meant, he’d be a marchwarden.”

“Tsk. That won’t happen before the end of Ëa.” 

Galion nods. Without another word, he reaches behind him for an unopened bottle of wine. He deftly pops the cork with his finger and distributes it between their two goblets. As the red liquor gently spills from the bottle, Thranduil's thoughts drift back to the very beginning of the evening, as dusk was creeping beyond the borders of the horizon and up into the sky. 

* * *

_Oropher rises from his place at the head of the table. Silence falls over the guests as he raises one shining gold goblet. Thranduil searches his face. His eyes are clear and his countenance bright, yet he wears an expression as indecipherable as ever. His silver circlet glints in the setting sun that pierces through the trees, a golden light that sets his platinum hair aflame._

_His eyes flick down to Thranduil, and Thranduil swallows, uncertain. Beneath the table, he feels Caladwen’s rough hand wrap around his own and squeeze reassuringly._

_“Welcome,” Oropher begins, his voice ringing out over the glade. “Tonight, we gather to celebrate an important moment. Tonight, we mark the end of the days of childhood, and the beginning of days lived in the fullness of adulthood. Thranduil - over the past hundred years, you have grown into a fine young_ ellon, _learning a great deal of wisdom and skills from all those around you_. _I know that in the days to come, you will put your abilities to use in service of your King and realm. Caladwen and I are proud to walk this path beside you. To your success and happiness.”_

_“To your success and happiness!” echoes the host, clapping, those sitting close by looking at Thranduil with bright eyes. He returns a smile to all who make eye contact with him, but in his heart, feels the grip of unease. Oropher’s words, face, and voice were so veiled. Even the love he could have perceived in the encouraging wishes is swamped by his own anxiety, looking for meanings that might be. Surely the wisdom and skills were not those he had learned at the training fields with other young elves, nor when he was jumping around trees with Galion. And what ’service’ to the realm was Oropher implying? Surely it wouldn’t be that which is dealt with the sword, bow, and arrow, but rather with the pen and the word. He doesn’t have long to contemplate it. Moments later, Oropher declares the feast and the party open, and the revelry begins._

_After partaking of the fine food with his close family, Thranduil slowly makes the rounds in the glade, greeting the lords in attendance, as is the proper thing to do. A smile and a wish of good health, and reciprocation. A congratulatory squeeze on the shoulder, and a word of gratitude. A brief dance with an acquaintance, or the daughter of a hopeful lord. At last, with the moon risen high, he arrives before Lord Celeborn,_ _who greets him with a warm smile, clasping his shoulder._

_“Forgive me,” Thranduil says, putting a hand over his heart and bowing slightly. “I mistakenly believed that getting acquaintances out of the way would leave more time for kin._ _”_

_“Sound in principle,” Celeborn acknowledges, eyes twinkling. “Truly poor in practice. You have my congratulations for today, and my best wishes."_

_“Thank you. I’m glad you were able to attend."_

_"We had no choice,” he smiles. "My nephew would have dragged us here by the hair if he had to."_

__“Thandir can be very compelling when he wants to be,_ _” he admits,_ laughing. The descendants of the House of Galadhon are truly unique among the lords and princes of Doriath - as passionate as they are wise, and as gentle as their wit is sharp._

_A new strain of music rings out, and Celeborn looks away, searching, before saying, “I think I shall have one more dance before retiring.”_

_“You’re not leaving?” Thranduil says, shocked._

_Celeborn looks at him apologetically. “Alas, we cannot spare a night and a day, which would be the only appropriate course of action for a celebration such as this. Tonight is for those of you who are young, without the cares of a kingdom to advise on. Go spend your hours with those who will dance until the dawn comes."_

_Thranduil bites his lip, skeptical. He scans the clearing to see where Celeborn’s gaze had shifted to, moments before, and his eyes land on Galadriel. She stands beside Caladwen, her head tipped back in laughter at something the other_ elleth _has just said. With the lamplight bouncing halos around both their heads, clad in the fair colours of spring, enjoying the party together, they look no different from one another. They could both have been here since the beginning of Doriath._

_Indeed, when he'd been little more than a babe, he'd trailed after Caladwen even when he shouldn't have, watching as she weaved with and attended to Queen Melian. Even then, the first time he'd spied Lady Galadriel, seated on a stool raised higher than his mother's, he'd been both intrigued and unnerved by her._ _He hadn't understood the history until much later, until he'd already accepted her as part of the fabric of Doriath's tapestry, if but a strangely luminous thread in the design. He never referred to her, or her kin that lived in Menegroth, as_  gelydh. _T_ _he distinction hadn't seemed important to him, until he’d learned of it_ _. By then, his father's raised eyebrows and glances with narrowed eyes seemed little more than petty. Then again, perhaps this perception was not among the ‘wisdom and skills’ Oropher had believed his son possessed - in which case, Thranduil was not sure whether he ought to be proud of himself, or worried._

_“I hope nobody has made you feel unwelcome,” he says carefully, turning back._

_Celeborn smiles sympathetically, the light of understanding filling his grey eyes. “You need not concern yourself with the ill-will of old grudges," he says. "Even if some of the wisest among us bear them, you do not have to. They are not unfounded - but neither are they beyond challenge.”_

* * *

"How is this for a begetting day, then?” Galion says suddenly, raising his drink, and Thranduil almost jumps. 

“Would be better if my father actually joined in,” he mutters, blinking away the wisps of reverie and clinking their goblets together. “He makes it out like it’s a duty. Attend, advise, thank you kindly."

" _Ai Valar,_ you're a bitter thing when inebriated," says Galion. “You _know_ Oropher. He doesn’t like parties. But you are his son and he your father, so he came, and told you what he thought you should hear, and he stayed. Where’s the fault in that?"

Thranduil flinches at his friend's honesty. But the truth is harsh, and real enough. Why is he angry, after all? It’s fairly easy to convince himself that every action of his is a bane against Oropher’s spirit. Perhaps he is afraid to believe his father’s words - lest he misinterpret them, lest they be untrue. Sometimes, a little reminder that all isn’t a judgement may be enough. And for that, perhaps he ought to thank Galion.

He doesn't get a chance to, though. His friend claps a hand on his shoulder and says, “Put it out of your mind. That’s what Thandir would tell you, and that’s what I’m telling you. And unlike your cousin, who is very responsible, I’m also telling you to take another drink. Your goblet’s not filled for nothing.” 

“Fine.” Thranduil takes a defiant swig. “As you say, Galion. Out of sight, out of mind.” 

He turns his back to the great table at the raised end of the glade, away from where Oropher stands, speaking with another elf. His friend nods sagely. 

"Good reasoning; rather, enjoy what is right now in front of you." Galion gestures into the bright, lively glade, lit with the colours of clothing and banners and lanterns, filled with music and buzzing with happy words and singing. "Look upon it. Choice company, superb music, the most excellent wine this side of Beleriand."

Thranduil takes another sip of his. "Agreed. A fine vintage." He looks down at his hand, bemused at the sudden, peculiar sensation.

Galion leans over to inspect. "What is it?”

“Odd. I feel something in my fingers."

"What?"

"A funny sensation." At Galion's bemused face, he amends, “Like a tingle."

"Oh?"

"I believe it's begun to affect me."

Galion laughs suddenly, gaily, and brings Thranduil to his feet, utterly disregarding their drowsy giddiness of moments before. He stumbles slightly, but regains his balance quickly and with a broad grin. He is happy to forget the discomfort, and the unpleasant thoughts of his brief, wine-induced stupor. How much better it is to lose himself in this bliss that feels half-unreal, at least until the dawn reigns reality back in.

Galion claps an arm round Thranduil’s shoulder. "You, my dear friend, my brother, find that it's time to learn your limits!" 

"For what reason?"

"For the sake any future joys or sadness,” he says, affixing Thranduil with an attempt at a serious look. "It's important knowledge, how much you can handle while you slowly lose control of your faculties. And I don’t just mean wine."

Thranduil's joy freezes on his face, stilling as the buzz from the alcohol fades with his uneasy confusion. “What? What do you mean?"

“I don’t know. Everything, I suppose. Too much of anything, really, is an evil.”

“Galion, I think the wine’s finally gotten to you.” 

“No, no. Youth is no longer yours, my friend,” he says, not really hearing Thranduil. "No more actions with little consequences; no straightforward…anything, actually."

The thought is strange, and it takes a dark and heavy root in Thranduil's heart. But the night is too beautiful and clear and full of life to dwell on such unpleasant thoughts. He decides to follow Gallon’s train of thought, if only to combat it with reassurance and restore the joviality of before. 

"You're older than me," he urges. "You'll keep an eye out for me."

"Me and Thandir," he says, and Thranduil's heart lightens at the affirmation. "As often as we can possibly do so. And without any doubt at all whatsoever."

Galion puts a heavy hand on Thranduil's shoulder, the strange seriousness banished from his eyes. "Now - will you continue with this learning of your limits on your own, like a responsible adult, or will I have to keep filling your goblet for you, as I’ve been doing since dusk?"

Thranduil lets out a short laugh to dispel his inner bewilderment, and shoves Galion's shoulder. "You're the culprit then! Not any ancient sorcery at all. Just Galion and his over-infectious love of wine." 

"I'm proud it!" crows Galion. "I know one wine from another and I have love of them all. Unlike you, who is finally only this night getting full up with it. Take another then, and go join the dance once more. Here's to your first hundred years!"

The two of them raise their glasses with a cheer, draining them as if they are draining away the selfsame thoughts of doom that only just assailed them, and then venture into the great circle of dancers. Thranduil is immediately applauded, and cheers of congratulations surround him. The dancers are varying degrees of intoxicated, but all are uniformly happy.

Thranduil loves dancing. He is not a master, but he knows very well how to do it, beyond the steps of the common courtroom dances that he learned in his lessons. Even though he has had several full goblets of wine, he doesn’t hesitate to step into the open clearing. Here, so surrounded is he by joy and love, an equal among his friends and acquaintances and the other party guests, that he knows that no mockery will follow any misstep caused by feet clumsy from drink. So he bows, and takes the hand of a beautiful _elleth_ standing close to him as the musicians strike up a lively dance tune.

The music is fast and rhythmic, and the smoothness of his steps are hindered by his obvious lack of sobriety, but the _elleth_ dances so merrily and laughs so freely that he soon forgets every instance of unease from earlier in the night, feeling wanted and elated.

"What is your name?" he shouts to her over the din, as they twirl round the edge of the group.

"For what reason would you need it my lord?" she laughs back.

"To properly thank you for this dance."

"Now why would you want to do that, my lord?"

"Don't say that!" he balks. "Too decorous. I'm Thranduil, just - just only that."

"So I've heard," she says, eyes wide in mock wonder. "I've also heard you're having a party to celebrate your begetting day this night."

“Indeed? Now that is a piece of news!" he exclaims, and beams wide. Her wit and the fairness of her face are invigorating. "I should like to thank you because this dance truly lovely and I'm enjoying myself very much."

She sways dizzily, and he feels a thrill of happiness from the way she leans on his arm for balance. “You mustn't have danced with many an _elleth_ before," she gasps.

He feigns offence, and she laughs, loud and unrestrained, all the while he speaks. “I can’t decide of you’re insulting me or not. Please clarify yourself."

"Oh hardly, my lo-!" She pauses to let out a high, whirling noise as he spins her across the grass. "Hardly, Thranduil. Only that the beautiful ladies would have to have been monstrous on their feet if I'm a reprieve."

"You insult yourself. Don't do that. It's unbecoming."

"It's your begetting day - tonight, you're a king. Not the rest of us."

He wishes he could hide the blush on his cheeks. "If I was ever a king like Thingol I'd say you were a Queen."

"A Queen fit for Thingol? So to rival Melian? Not likely."

"My dear, none among Eldar or Ùmanyar could ever rival Melian, so let's not even bring her into the picture."

And they go on like this for quite some time, exchanging inconsequential and often foolish words of a pleasing nature, back and forth, until Thranduil's bare feet are red and bruised, and the _elleth_ has veritably fainted in his arms. The moon is slipping lower and lower now, and with it, the energy of the party. Already, small groups have begun to wander off, and a team of elves ready to clean up the whole mess are relaxing at the edges, passing a carafe of wine amongst themselves as they wait. 

"What is your name?" Thranduil asks, his voice quiet and hoarse, leading her off the dance floor as she leans against him, a tired, happy smile on her face. She looks up at him and he looks down into eyes of the clearest blue, like glacial waters. She opens her mouth as if to speak, but is cut off by a shout at the edge of the clearing.

An _elleth_ , red in the face from the dancing, is waving at her from a small group. "Avornel! Come along, we have the midday watch tomorrow! I want to sleep!"

"Yes, go on, I'm coming!" she shouts back. Then she looks up at Thranduil with a wide grin. "Question answered?

He grins, wanting one last barb. "Not by you."

And she gladly accepts, backing away and sweeping her hand in a wide, grand gesture before bowing. "My name is Avornel." Then, with a raised hand and a last laugh, she runs on unsteady, swaying feet to the receding silhouettes of her friends, walking through the lamplit trees.

The grass shifts behind him. "You are entranced by her."

Thranduil turns around so quickly that he sways, and Caladwen is forced to grab him by either arm to steady him.

"Come here my son," she says, eyes bright with humour as she brushes his fair, tangled hair back from his sticky face.

"My mother," he says. "My dearest… _nana_." He has long since forgotten his lack of agency over his tired limbs and muddled thoughts, and simply presents a wide, tired smile of deep love. 

Caladwen is shorter than him now, by a whole head. Age has done little to weary her, but it seems like old stardust has begun to settle in the roots of her hair, as ageless as the celestial bodies from which it falls. Enduringly beautiful - like Caladwen. She reaches into her pocket and withdraws something cupped in her hands.

She opens her palms. "You will recall this, ion-nin."

Nestled within her hands is a beautiful gem, like a bright white star, glowing every so slightly in the fading moonlight. It is the gem that his mother wore once, many years ago.

"Your jewel," he whispers, reverent and hesitant to touch it. Caladwen grasps his fingers with one hand and brings them to wrap around the gem. It feels cool and calm and clean within his hot hand.

"It is for you," she says, her eyes filled with deep tenderness and affection. “For your own heart. Ever may you love deeply and dearly, and be loved the same.” 

She fixes him with a look that pierces near to his heart, and it is all he can do not to weep. Her words overwhelm him. He can say nothing, but embraces her, almost a deadweight leaning on her in his stupor. In his hand, the gem pulses with a deep, selfless love - a mother's love - collected over years and long years. Thranduil fears the knowledge that it awakes in his heart: that for all they give, he may never be able to love those that love him, as much as they deserve. For they deserve all of Ëa and more - and who could ever give that?

**Author's Note:**

>  _gelydh_  - a Sindarin term for Noldor. Considered a slur by the Noldor. From what I’ve read, it was the preferred term in Doriath.  
>  _ellon_ \- a male elf  
>  _elleth_ \- a female elf  
>  _ellyn_ \- elves
> 
> Here’s a little family tree to explain some of the relations in these noble houses. I basically fell in love with the idea of Thandir being Celeborn’s nephew, so I gave the latter a non-canon second brother. I've also named Oropher's parents, sister, and Galadhon's unnamed and unreferenced (but obviously extant) wife. 
> 
> [](http://imgur.com/NXCfQB7) 
> 
> As always, I welcome any advice regarding misinterpretations or misremembered elements of the lore.
> 
> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Fernstrike
> 
> p.s. The next work in this series is soon to come, so if you enjoyed this, you may like to subscribe and see where Thranduil's story in Doriath will go from here!


End file.
